From California To Chicago Poem by Bill Cushing

The rolling surf and mists of
clouds reflect
the sunlight off the side
of our flight and into
the Grand Canyon:

three rock formations snake
through the gigantic gullet,
their peaks like the spine
of an iguana.

The inverted capillaries,
veins, and arteries of
river beds cut through
the landscape,

indentations that seem as if
God had scraped spoons
of ice cream
out of the earth.

Landing, we slide beneath
the bellies of arriving
an departing jets.
"The moving walkway is now
ending; please look down."

Above, candy colored
coat hangers of neon
burn and cool the area while

rising up into the concourse
of O'Hare, a plastic and chrome
Grand Central Station
for the new millenium,

opening floodgates
for the art of denial,
washing away
silt of tradition.